


when it's still perfect

by LassTimes



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, Family, Feels, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 20:19:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12991761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LassTimes/pseuds/LassTimes
Summary: (Much later, in the future, she cannot bear to see Winter's face; a face so like hers - chiseled jaw, high cheekbones and sharp eyes. But younger and unblemished. Untainted.Her eldest daughter becomes a bitter reminder of what had been and what had yet to happen.)





	when it's still perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Did this little thing with feels after Volume 5 Chapter 8.
> 
> The Schnees destroys me with their angst. ;-;

She feels strangely warm and at ease, her lips pulling into an easy arch of a smile as she savours the weight of her daughter in the nestle of her arms. She cannot believe it. 

Her daughter.

Hers.

Yes, she is her daughter, isn't she? 

A child gifted to her in the midst of a harsh snow blizzard. She remembers hearing the windows open harshly from its lock, and hitting the wall with a thunder-like clap that scare the nurses. She remembers the stern order to push, push, push and push as she scream from a burning pain unlike anything, her Aura hasten to remedy her pain in vain. She almost fainted but she managed through.

Winter. She is born in the winter, cold and strong and fearless. 

Winter, her name is Winter.

She laboured her for a day, it was painful but it was worth it. The moment Winter was put onto her arms, fresh and bloodied, she hadn't felt weak nor could she feel the after pain, the sedate that flows through her tired body couldn't keep her from closing her eyes. 

She had thought, I must see every inch of my daughter. Her face, her button nose, her small, sticky eyes and the soft ivory hair that juts from her head. Everything. And she is so perfect that it hurts. It has been months ago but she never is tired of staring at her perfect baby. 

 

(Much later, in the future, she cannot bear to see Winter's face; a face so like hers - chiseled jaw, high cheekbones and sharp eyes. But younger and unblemished. Untainted. 

Her eldest daughter becomes a bitter reminder of what had been and what had yet to happen.)

 

"Mama loves you."

She tastes the words in her tongue, she is still unused to it. Looking down, she almost gasps when her baby opens her mouth for a toothless grin. It is as if she knows that her mother just proclaimed her absolute love for her.

Wrapped in a lavender cloth, Winter is swaddled around her arms, safe and contented. She sways her ever so slightly, humming a wordless tune as she makes her way through the hallway, with its high ceiling and cobalt wallpaper, as familiar as ever. 

She wants to visit the garden with her newborn, the garden is her favourite place ever since she could walk. It was Nicholas' favourite place too, if and when he decided to abandon his books for once in favour of resting. He and mother used to bring her here. Now it’s time for her to bring Winter here.

She pushes the glass door with her shoulder, minding Winter in her arms. She enters the garden, gracefully stepping aside so that the door can shut by itself.

The cold comes and caresses their skins like a lover. The stubborn presence of winter still ghosts over Atlas, embracing the kingdom in its thinning embrace. Snows are no longer falling.

The weight upon her arms immediately shifts. She smiles when she sees Winter wriggling in her cloth to reach for a nearby vase that holds a variety of bold coloured floras. Winter's blue doe eyes - she likes to think those eyes are from her and not from Jacques' - sparks with interest. 

 

(She can't look at those eyes. Winter's. Weiss'. Whitley’s. None of them, no matter how much she wants to. She cries wishing for it, she drinks wishing still.)

 

"Winter, the vases will fall." She warns softly and leads them away from the vases. 

She notices Klein already preparing a mug upon a small table, positioned at the brighter and airy part of the garden where the cold reaches less. Steam raises from within the mug and she knows it is her mandatory morning beverage. 

Klein grins until his eyes shuts. "Hot coffee, Miss Schnee?"

 

(She barely wants them in the future. She doesn't want to stay awake, she wants to sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep and never wake up-)

 

"As always, thank you, Klein."

"As always, a pleasure, Miss Schnee." He darts his eyes to the bundle in her arms. "And Miss Little Schnee."

The little Schnee giggles and squeals, both adults cannot contain their smiles. 

"Miss Schnee, call me should you require anything." He bows and she nods. 

She sits with Winter on her lap and enjoys the morning. She entertains her daughter by talking to her and Winter, even as an infant, replies to her as if she understands every adult words. Although she does only replies them with incoherent sounds and wide eyes, which the mother finds them all together cute. 

As time passes, the sweet scent of flowers no longer dominates their surrounding. In its stead is a musk of a fragrant; oil and alcohol scented that creates the impression of expensive masculinity. 

She knows who it is without looking. 

 

(Whitley is screeching in his baby seat, Winter becomes silent and Weiss is crying in front of her cake, ten candles perched on its creamy surface.)

 

Winter starts wriggling yet again, although this time both her chubby arms extends to a person instead of flowers. Two larger hands deftly scoops Winter up. The lost of her daughter's warmth and baby scent almost makes her wilt visibly. Almost. She knows propriety, especially in front of her husband.

"Jacques." She greets as he rounds the table to sit on her opposite side.

He doesn't reply to her greeting, which she is becoming used to now. He opts to stare at their daughter with a strange look in his face. 

Winter is uncharacteristically still in his arms and under his gaze. Almost… almost as if she tries to get her father's attention. It is something that she notices as Winter was always vivacious in Jacques’ arms - in anybody’s really. Although as that goes by, her daughter becomes more reserved unlike any babies should, she thinks sadly. The little one seems to catch on rather quickly that her father is less appreciative with anything in association with chaotic demeanor.

Their daughter, she is sure, will grow up with a blessed mind. A prodigy, perhaps. 

 

(In her own way, she is proud of all her children. Always, in her own intricate way.)

 

"I thought you have a meeting with the council?" She asks, her fingers slipping around the mug to seek warmth. 

He looks to her just for a second before his eyes flicks back to Winter. "It is held until afternoon."

He is a a man of few words if he is in private, this husband of hers. 

 

(He is shouting at her and she is numb. He has more words for her than he ever had back then. She is wrong, back then.)

 

“Then I suppose you will be back by evening?” 

“I suppose.” 

Silence. It is comfortable, she thinks. 

They may have been married but she still isn’t used to his presence and he cares less about hers. They try to court each other, true, but it is under a necessary marital pretence. Although she likes to think that, later, maybe sooner, she can believe in their marriage, believe in him. 

Every men have beauty in them, every women can find them. She hopes she finds his. And he finds hers. Like in the fairy tale perhaps.

 

(It breaks her heart when he finally admits it. This beautiful ring is for her name and not her, that expensive necklace is for her name and not her, these beautiful children are not hers but for his own taking, branded by her own name. 

She knows, deep in her heart that that is the truth even before everything crumbles, but it still hurts hearing it.)

 

Just like in the fairy tale-

“She is shaping to be a healthy child. The governess says she will be a smart one. Befitting for our name.” He suddenly says and the coffee almost splash out.

She manages, “A-Ah, well, the governess is quite right, dear.” 

He grunts in bored approval. Though, she can see the twitch in his dark moustache, the telltale sign of a smile. She can tell this is a genuine one, like the one fathers always have for their child.

Perhaps he isn’t entirely cold. Perhaps he can be normal too, a caring father for his child. A loving man to his wife.

 

(Sobered, she still thinks it’s genuine, that small smile of his. He must’ve felt like a father, a proud one, she is sure. What happened to him then? Where is that person now? No matter how she squint and turn, she cannot find that semblance of a decent man that she holds her hope into.)

 

Before she knows it, Winter is back in her arms and Jacques takes his leave quietly with just a murmur of excuse, much like a phantom. 

She feels a bit down, thinking Jacques and her can possibly take this chance of a time alone to talk to each other... No matter, then. As long as she can feel her daughter’s warmth in her arms, then nothing matters much. 

 

(She still longs for it sometimes. Everytime.)

 

She looks down at Winter who is suddenly interested in chewing her swaddle cloth. 

“Your papa is a peculiar man, Winter.” She muses loudly.

Winter stops chomping on the cloth, leaving a darker spot of lavender from her drools. Her baby then looks at her truly, as if listening. Winter’s eyes are wide blue and they sees her mother, giving her undivided attention. 

The mother smiles and leans closer to her baby until their nose touches. The child gurgles happily and in turn the mother whispers a gentle promise only known to the both of them.

“I will always be there for you, Winter. I will be a good mother, a loving one for you. I will never leave your side when you need me, my sweet Snowflake. Do you know that? I will never.”

Her precious baby delights her with a squeal and a laughter. Her heart swells and so she kisses her forehead for a long while.

“I promise.” 

Again, it is uttered in a soft voice, her breath brushing against Winter’s forehead. Her lips smiling against those soft skin. Loving and tender, as she promised. 

 

(She promised, didn’t she?)

 

She pulls back to look at Winter in the face, so perfect and beautiful, her child. She stands up from her seat and walks over to a bush of flowers, where Winter seems to like it. 

Unlike previously, Winter stills and only looks at her, and so she replies with a warm gaze of her own. The little one seems satisfied and smiles a toothless smile. 

And those eyes. Those clear, baby blue eyes says everything that is needed to her.

The mother smiles softly.

 

(I'm sorry, Winter.)

 

"Mama loves you too, Winter."

**Author's Note:**

> Noticed how I didn't put 'Willow' there? Yea, it'll be awkward if it turns out that's not Mama Schnee's name.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D


End file.
